


The Money Shot

by igrockspock



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Banter, Family, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9605876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: Eight weeks and six days after Lily's funeral, Veronica takes her first case: catching Richard Casablancas, Sr. on camera with a local stripper.  All she has to do is lie to her dad long enough to get the money shot.  Should be easy, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apricot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/gifts).



> Apricot, thank you for your lovely letter! I was intrigued by what you said about Veronica's first case, and I just couldn't resist writing this treat. I hope you enjoy it!

Eight weeks and six days after Lily’s funeral, Veronica returns from the bathroom to find the word WHORE etched on the front of her binder and Logan Echolls smirking in his seat. Spitballs pelt the back of her head as she sits down.

Her English teacher, oblivious, drones on as he writes on the board. “Epic heroes are known for the following five characteristics….” 

He drops a marker on the floor. Veronica seizes the moment to grab Logan by his shirt sleeve and drag him closer. He smirks and jerks his arm back. “Sorry, V, I don’t do sloppy -- well, you wouldn’t exactly be sloppy seconds anymore, would you? More like, what, sloppy fifty-thirds?”

Logan’s mastered the art of the stage whisper by now. His voice is just loud enough to make half the class burst into titters, just soft enough that Mr. Finch can’t really hear. No doubt he honed the skill over half a decade of being a psychotic jackass, a trait Veronica had been all too willing to ignore so long as he was dating her best friend. 

Well, not anymore. 

“How I am the whore here, Logan? Exactly how many girls have you fucked since Lilly died? Out of curiosity, did you wait till after the funeral, or did you knock on Madison’s door and ask for the pity fuck right away?” Veronica asks, pitching her voice just a little higher since the plan to yank Logan toward her had failed.

Mr. Finch’s marker squeaks on the whiteboard. Silence descends over the classroom. And, okay, maybe that was a little louder than Veronica had intended. She sits up straight, shoulders back, determined to look proud. The effect is probably marred by the bright pink flush spreading across her face.

Mr. Finch’s voice cuts through the silence. “Veronica. Hallway. _Now._ ”

***

Mr. Finch and Vice Principal Clemmons hand down an ultimatum: Veronica can apologize, or spend the next week in in-school suspension. Old Veronica would’ve chosen whichever option would make her parents happier; new Veronica declines to apologize with some bonus profanity to boot. It doesn’t matter anyway. Mama Mars won’t get her head out of the bottle long enough to notice the blemish on her daughter’s once-pristine discipline record. Her father would care, if he ever found out, which he won’t: he’s chasing bail jumpers in Arizona, so she has plenty of time to forge his signature on all the relevant documents and delete Clemmons’ exasperated messages from the answering machine. As an added bonus, Veronica can spend an entire week free from the tender ministrations of the 09er crowd.

Finch delivers his revenge in the morning, still warm from the copy machine: _Write a short story in which you cast yourself as the hero of a modern-day epic. Your story must contain at least five characteristics of an epic hero as identified in Phillip A. Lockheart's article "Notes on Heroic Poetry: The Primary and Secondary Epic." Due Friday, March 3 no later than 5:00 p.m._

Veronica stares at the bland white walls of the school prison and taps her pencil against the bland white desk. What exactly is Neptune High School’s newest pariah supposed to write an epic _about_? In the real world, there are no heroes, just good guys who get recalled from public office when they make mistakes in the pursuit of justice. There are no epic battles either, just lopsided confrontations where the teacher looks up just in time to see the would-be heroine berating her seemingly innocent archnemesis.

 _Dear Mr. Finch_ , she could write, _I recognize your ridiculous assignment for what it is: an admittedly sophisticated attempt to mock the outcome of the one day I stood up to Logan Echolls. I demand the same mindless worksheets as the rest of my peers._ But she already knows what Mr. Finch will say: she chose to get in-school suspension, and she chose the extra work right along with it. And her newfound defiance has its limits. In the past eight weeks, she's lost a best friend and all of her other friends, and her house and her parents' marriage are next on the chopping block. Her grades are pretty much all she has left, one small way she can defy the people who want her to suffer. How's _that_ for epic, Mr. Finch?

With a sigh, she flips open her notebook and finds the list of epic characteristics that she’d shoved in her binder before her journey to Clemmons’ office. First on the list, “The hero, often a demi-god, possesses distinctive weapons of great size and power, often heirlooms or presents from the gods.”

Does scathing wit count as a gift from the gods? On the one hand, it’s been with her more or less since puberty, even if the only people she’d ever shared it with were Logan and Lilly. 

“Why do you insist upon hiding your light, Veronica?” Lilly had demanded, but Veronica had only shrugged. Once upon a time, she’d thought that _nice_ was the most important thing a girl could be, and she was content to bask in her best friend’s glory. 

Now that she knows niceness offers little protection against the world, she’s pretty much been speaking her mind -- not that she always knows what to say. Words are a fickle weapon. Half her shots have been underpowered, like telling Susan Knight and Carrie Bishop it’s no surprise to find them gossiping, and the other half have overshot the mark -- like calling Madison Sinclair a cunt-faced bitch at top volume in the middle of the hallway. As banter goes, she’s no epic hero, and there’s no kind old mentor to take her into training.

Still, she’s got some pseudo-epic adventures to share, and plenty of time to write them. She pulls a fresh sheet of paper from her whore-emblazoned binder and sets to work.

***

Two days after her father’s ouster from public office, our heroine Veronica got a job...at Amy’s Ice Cream, beloved gathering place of the ‘09er crowd. There she doled out scoops of rocky road while jousting with her adversaries, Dick Casablancas chief among them.

Dick tossed his highlighted golden curls as he approached the counter with a swagger. “Ronnie, imagine seeing you here. Guess you’ve gotta support the family somehow, huh? Two scoops of mint chocolate chip. And your mom’s a whore.”

This was an exchange our fledgling fighter could manage. First rule of banter: don’t give the enemy what he wants.

“Very original, Dick,” she said, scooping ice cream into a cone she’d dropped on the floor earlier that evening. She’d been saving it for just the right customer. “It would really be more entertaining if you could come up with something wittier next time.”

Second rule of banter: imply that your adversary is beneath you. Veronica had grasped this rule on her own, even without a master to teach her.

“Why?” Dick asked. “If your mom’s a whore, she’s a whore.”

He passed a hundred dollar bill across the counter, and Veronica sighed.

“Read the sign, Dick. No bills over twenty dollars accepted.”

“Oh right, I forgot. The Mars family going rate is more like fifty cents.”

The third rule of verbal warfare is probably to keep your cool, but our heroine hadn’t mastered that one yet. She preferred to skip to rule number four: don’t be afraid to go for the kill with whatever weapons happen to be at hand.

“ _My_ mom is the whore? Last I checked, your dad was the one screwing half the strippers in Neptune. What is this, divorce number two? Do you think the alimony payments will cut into your allowance?”

“Gee whillikers, Veronica, I guess I might have to give up that gold-plated surf board,” Dick said, brushing a golden curl out of his face. He seemed nonchalant, but a battle-tested warrior like our heroine is adept at sensing the slightest hint of weakness.

“What’s the matter, Dick? Did you _like_ this trophy wife? Or are you just embarrassed that Dick Senior can’t find classier ladies to nail?”

Dick’s face fell, and Veronica’s lips curled upward in a triumphant grin. But her moment of victory was short-lived, for her boss appeared at the register to demand a private conversation posthaste.

Alas, the modern day is hard on the epic hero. Beowulf and Cuchulain never got fired from their jobs for using their god-given gifts to slay their adversaries; in fact, they were showered with gold and gems and nubile women. But then, the heroes of yore never had to work day jobs for minimum wage.

***

How's _that_ for epic, Mr. Finch? Veronica thinks. And for the next act, her trusty handout commands her to find an epithet: “Whatever virtues his race most prizes, the epic hero is a cultural exemplar who possesses these in abundance. His key quality is often emphasized by his stock epithet: 'Resourceful Odysseus,' 'swift-footed Achilles,' 'pious AEneas'."

Resourceful. That's a good one. Resourceful Veronica, perfectly decent title of an epic tale. That's one characteristic of an epic story she can check off her list, right? Wrong. The new and improved perfectionist Veronica Mars knows good writers don't _tell_ their audience, they _show_ their audience. She glances up at the clock. 9:43 a.m. It's not as if she doesn't have time to write.

***

Resourceful Veronica opened the refrigerator and stared inside. The vegetable drawer contained a few slimy-looking mushrooms nestled in a styrofoam tray, and the upper reaches of the chamber weren’t much better. There was beer aplenty -- courtesy of our heroine's mother-- but the non-alcoholic refreshments were limited to half-empty condiment jars, a bag of shredded cheese, and a couple nearly-expired slices of bacon. Few mortals could make a meal of such limited provisions, but our heroine had become quite proficient at making something out of nothing since her father lost his job.

She foraged in the pantry for a bag of rice and carried her conquests to the stove. Veronica had learned to cook from her mother in bygone days; now the task was a bittersweet reminder, and a chance to do what little she could for her steadfast father. She cooked the bacon till it was crisp -- her father had taught her this ancient Mars family skill -- and sauteed the mushrooms in bacon fat, foreseeing in her resourcefulness that the flavor of bacon might conceal the inferiority of her ingredients. When the rice was done, she dumped in half the bag of shredded cheese and threw the bacon and mushrooms on top. 

"Voila," she said to the family dog. "Pseudo-risotto for the lower middle class."

No sooner had she finished setting the table than her father walked through the door, his eyes dark and his face covered with stubble after a weekend of chasing bail jumpers in Vegas. He slid a check across the kitchen table, a mere pittance compared to his previous salary, but enough to pay half the mortgage with a bonus trip to the grocery store.

"Who's your daddy?" he asked, a bit of light glinting in his tired eyes.

"We really need a better family slogan," Veronica said. She lit a candle at the dinner table: one last token of her resourcefulness, a chance to pretend that she and her father were dining with the wealthy at the Neptune Grand.

***

The third period bell rings, and Veronica shoves her notebook into her bag, ready to depart. But bells and passing periods mean nothing in the school prison. Coach Arden, the basketball coach who can’t be bothered to teach a real class, points at the sign on the cinderblock wall: NO ONE WILL LEAVE IN-SCHOOL SUSPENSION AT ANY TIME FOR ANY REASON.

Veronica slides back into her seat with a sigh, trying to ignore bladder. Water habit be damned. The epic story handout is still at the front of her folder, so she shoves more lead into her pencil and keeps writing. For the next act, "the hero must undertake a long, perilous journey, often involving a descent into the Underworld, which tests his endurance, courage, and cunning." Well, she certainly has options for this one. A day in the hallways of Neptune High School perhaps? No, too obvious. The hours she'd spent collecting job applications from every retail and food service establishment in town? A feat of endurance, yes. Cunning and courage, not so much. The night she'd spent tailing Richard Casablancas, Sr. to nightclubs and strip clubs? An epic journey to the underworld indeed.

***

One week past, our heroine's father departed on a bounty hunting journey to Wyoming, leaving his young charge with strict instructions to cancel Mrs. Casablancas’ request for surveillance on her cheating husband. Loathe though she was to disobey, resourceful Veronica knew there was no choice: she'd read the bank statements. Foregoing this job meant foregoing referrals, perhaps even losing the business that was only now forming in her father's mind. She took the camera, and she took the case.

Months before her tragic demise, our young heroine's best friend had taught her how to follow a car in traffic.

"How else will you know if your boyfriend is cheating?" Lilly had asked, the sunlight glinting off her long blonde hair.

"Why don't I just date boys who won't cheat?" Veronica had answered. "Why do you even know how to do this anyway?"

"Trying to find out who Dad's hooking up with at the Camelot Hotel," Lilly said. "Still haven't seen that bitch's face."

Armed with naught but a camera and a can of Red Bull, our heroine embarked on a journey to follow Richard Casablancas, Sr. to the Seventh Veil. Though she never left the safety of her car, her innocence was threatened by no fewer than four men who made indecent proposals for insultingly small sums of money. When Mr. Casablancas emerged at last, walking between two women of ample bosom, Veronica snapped a blurry photo under the dim glow of a streetlight. From thence, she tailed them to an exceptionally shady bar and finally photographed them ascending the steps to a second floor room at the Camelot Hotel. And then, satisfied with her work, our heroine sheathed her camera and returned home, where she slept until it was time to prepare dinner in anticipation of her hardworking father’s return.

She waited until her improvised lasagna was eaten and the candles nearly burned down before she passed a folder of photographs across the kitchen table.

“You caught a bail jumper, and _I_ caught a cheater,” she declared, triumphant. She flipped open the folder and began to narrate her journey. “See, here’s his car parked outside the Seventh Veil, and here he is leaving with his arms around a couple strippers. Ooh! And now they’re going into the Camelot for an illicit rendezvous.” She leaned back in her chair, awaiting her father’s congratulations.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Please, Veronica, stay innocent forever. And stay away from the Seventh Veil.”

Veronica frowned. “Innocent? Me? I went to a strip club, and the shadiest hotel in Neptune.”

Her father smiled benevolently. “It was sweet of you to try and do this for me, honey. But it’s not your job.” He stood and began clearing the dishes from the table. “Dinner was excellent though.”

Veronica rose suddenly, with none of the decorum befitting an epic heroine. “Sweet? Honey? Dinner was excellent? Did I fall into some kind of portal to the nineteen fifties? We need money, Dad, and I want to help.”

“It’s not your place, Veronica.” Her father’s face was stony. “I am sorry I haven’t been able to provide for this family the way I used to, believe me. And I appreciate the job applications you’ve put in. But stalking men to nightclubs is not appropriate work for a kid.”

“And what is my place, exactly, Dad? Staying up on Saturday nights wondering where Mom is? Filing bank statements and pretending not to notice that the house might go into foreclosure before we sell it?” She clenched her fingers around a stack of plates and said something she knew she shouldn’t. “Or should I just lie in bed and pretend that I never saw my best friend’s dead body and that nobody at school calls me a whore?”

Her father’s head drooped, and Veronica suppressed a surge of guilt. “If I knew how to make any of this better, Veronica, I would.”

“I’m not asking you to make it better for me,” Veronica said. “I’m asking you to let me _help_. I am not the innocent sixteen-year-old you knew a month ago. Whatever is happening to us, you can’t figure it out alone and god knows Mom isn’t here to help.” She takes a deep breath and carries their plates to the kitchen sink. “Just tell me what’s wrong with the photos so I can do better next time.”

Her father swallowed. Veronica narrowed her eyes. Was he _blushing_?

“You didn’t get the money shot, Veronica.”

“What’s that?” Veronica asked, dropping their dirty silverware into the sink.

“Am I having this conversation with my sixteen-year-old daughter?”

“I think you are. Unless you want me to google for it.” Veronica reached for her laptop, still sitting on the kitchen counter after her quest for recipes.

“Don’t do that.” Her father stilled her hand. “The money shot is a photograph of two people, um, --”

“Having sex?”

Her father smiled ruefully. “If Mrs. Casablancas wanted to test her husband’s fidelity for her own peace of mind, your photos would answer the question.”

“But what she really wants is to prove that he violated the terms of their prenuptial agreement…”

“Hence the need for the money shot. And the reason I don’t want you handling jobs like these.”

Veronica nodded. She might have grown up a lot in the past few weeks, but she drew the line at taking dirty pictures of Neptune’s elite. Just _think_ what it would do for her reputation at school.

But it wouldn’t hurt to sign up for a night time photography class with the last of her allowance money, just in case. She was resourceful Veronica, after all -- she had an epithet to uphold.

***

So, which is the real journey to the underworld -- taking a drive to the Seventh Veil, or forcing your father to recognize that he can’t provide for you anymore? You be the judge, Mr. Finch. Her “elevated, literary language” is slipping a bit toward the end of the section, but she can’t find the will to edit it. It’s hard to make a conversation like that sound heroic, and it doesn’t seem right to try.

A shadow falls over Veronica’s desk, and she hates herself for flinching. Once upon a time, she’d greeted every stranger with an eager grin. Eight weeks as the school punching bag had dissolved that habit fast, but she hasn’t perfected her poker face just yet -- especially not when the guy looming over her is none other than the school’s resident gang leader, Weevil Navarro.

His smile is lascivious. The way his eyes roam down her body makes her blush. “I heard you like a good time,” he says. “So some of my buddies and I were wondering --”

“Nope.” Veronica barely even bothers to look up from her notebook paper. Rule #5 of verbal warfare: don’t engage in battles beneath your notice. She may not be an epic heroine yet, but she’s learning.

A second later, Coach Arden warns Weevil to sit down, but Weevil just shrugs his shoulders and strolls out the door. Veronica can’t help but feel the faintest twinge of admiration as she watches him go. If only his definition of a good time included giving lessons in how not to give a damn…

She tries to focus on her assignment again, but somebody taps on her shoulder. She spins around, wishing she had a good retort on her lips. The guy behind her is a kid she’s never seen before -- not that that means he has anything nice to say. Plenty of strangers call her a whore these days.

“Corny’s the name, a good time’s the game,” he says, and when Coach Arden’s back is turned, he flashes her a backpack filled with baggies of, well, _everything_. Veronica’s eyes widen and he smiles. “First one’s free. Special discount for the girl who told off Logan Echolls.”

“That’s, uh, mighty generous of you, but no thanks,” Veronica says, feeling once again like the Pep Squad’s resident goody-two-shoes. Is she the kind of person who receives gifts of mysterious white powder now? Would Lilly even be proud of that? Probably, but Veronica’s not sure it’s an accomplishment worth celebrating.

“You sure?” Corny asks. “Heard you had a rough week…”

“Very sure,” Veronica says,spinning back around in her seat before she starts wondering what a headlong rush into oblivion might feel like. It’s not a question she can afford to explore. Her father needs her, and she owes Mr. Finch a climactic battle with an epic adversary. She picks up her pencil and gets back to work.

***

Three days after her father’s triumphant return from Arizona, our heroine found her mother’s credit card bill next to her father’s bankruptcy filing -- if by _found_ , you mean she discovered two plain yet strangely ominous envelopes on the kitchen counter and steamed them open. Old Veronica, the obedient model, would never have done such a thing. New Veronica was done being blindsided.

According to the contents of the first envelope, her mother had spent a truly shocking quantity of money on booze and cheap hotels. According to the second, her father’s attempt to refinance the mortgage had been denied due to his less-than-stellar credit rating and recent unemployment. Bankruptcy and foreclosure were now inevitable.

All that left Veronica with exactly one option: get the money shot. Would it save her family from foreclosure and bankruptcy? Certainly not. Would it buy groceries and pay the electricity bill while her dad got back on his feet? At fifty-five dollars an hour, yes it would.

That just left one problem: how to sneak out of the house under the vigilant eyes of Neptune’s former sheriff and current most over-protective dad.

Step one, Veronica supposed, was to take a shower and saunter into the kitchen for a cup of hot cocoa, clad in flannel pajamas with her hair wrapped in a towel. 

“One for me and one for you,” Veronica said, depositing a steaming mug of cocoa into her father’s hand. Her father smiled back, and Veronica hoped her elaborate facsimile of a bedtime routine was complete.

Step two, crank up the music. Wait for father to complain.

“But _Daaaad_ , it’s my favorite album,” she protested, barely glancing up from painting her toes. “Just till the end of the CD? Pretty please?”

Her father heaved an exasperated sigh, but he looked strangely happy. “Alright. Only because I’m glad to see you looking so normal. Just keep your bedroom door closed, okay?”

“Whatever you say, old man,” Veronica said, nodding along to the beat. Her father pulled the door shut behind him, and she nudged the volume up just a little higher, the better to cover the sound of her window opening and her car starting.

When she was sure her father wouldn’t return, she stepped out of her bathrobe. Lily would be proud of the ensemble beneath: red bra cups peeking out from a low-cut black tank top, and a denim skirt so short the tips of the pockets peeked out from behind the frayed hem. Just a little red lipstick and her look was complete. 

As a last touch, she put her bedroom light on a timer and stuffed a giant teddy bear in bed where she was supposed to be. Then she popped off her screen, slid out the window, and departed on a quest for the fabled money shot.

Richard Casablancas, Sr.’s car wasn’t hard to find, even without a GPS tracker. Even in Neptune, few people were gauche enough to drive a bright orange Humvee. And anyway, Richard Casablancas was nothing if not predictable. Eleven p.m. found him at the Seventh Veil, just like always.

From there, Veronica tailed him to his second favorite haunt in Neptune, the Camelot Inn. Money, Veronica supposed, couldn’t buy taste. Now for the tricky part: getting the money shot. To get the payout, did it have to be an actual shot of...coitus? Or would fooling around be sufficient? Veronica should have asked her father for clarification. Then again, if she was fumbling for the word in her own mind, the chances she could’ve asked dear old Pops were slim to none.

Well, no time like the present. She tugged her top down lower and sashayed toward the check-in desk, smacking her gum as she went. 

“Hey, I got locked out of 203,” Veronica told the bald, snaggle-toothed clerk at the desk, who appeared to be watching porn. For reasons not entirely clear even to herself, she adopted a New York accent.

The clerk stared at her for a moment. Veronica tapped her foot.

“My client don’t like to wait,” she said. Was her accent slipping? Lesson learned. No gratuitous New York accents on the job.

The clerk grunted and slid the key across the counter. 

Her high heels clattered on the rusted metal stairs, and Veronica kicked them off lest the sound alert her targets -- though, judging from the noise coming from 203, they were quite absorbed in their activities. She froze at the door, her heart pounding, her sweaty hand nearly slipping off the key.

Was this really harder than anything else she’d endured in the last eight weeks? She took a deep breath, raised her camera to her eye, and opened the door. For a few seconds, the mass of entangled limbs on the bed didn’t register her presence. _Was that three people,_ Veronica wondered idly, _or possibly four?_ The important thing was that she was _definitely_ getting the money shot.

Assuming, of course, that she could _escape_ with it. Richard Casablancas, Sr. had risen from the bed with a mighty roar. Veronica had imagined he would stop to put on his pants, but alas, he charged toward her naked, mast still half-raised. With a shriek, Veronica leaped away from the door, thanking the gods she’d taken off her high heels. She took the steps two at a time, but Mr. Casablancas was gaining fast.

Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, she spun and took one more picture. The flash blinded her pursuer and she vaulted into her car, foot heavy on the gas. In the morning, Mrs. Casablancas gave her a $300 bonus for the shot of her soon-to-be-ex running naked in the parking lot, his decidedly unimpressive manhood flapping in the breeze.

When Veronica came home from school, exhausted but triumphant, she slid the envelope of cash across the table to her father. He shook his head, eyes going dark.

“I can’t accept this, Veronica.” Then he stopped and stared at the tidy pile of hundred dollar bills. “Wait - where did you even get this?”

Veronica shrugged. “I did Dick Casablancas’ homework for a week. He’s not very smart.” 

Eight weeks ago, she couldn’t have stomached lying to her father. Of course, then she hadn’t known that sometimes you had to choose between surviving and being the person you want to be.

She unzipped her backpack and dumped the contents on the kitchen table. “Not a drug dealer. See?” She turned out her pockets for effect. “Need to search my room?”

Her father threw an arm around her shoulders and squeezed tight. “I know you don’t deal drugs, honey. But I don’t want you cheating at school. It’s not who you are.”

Veronica sighed. “So you’re saying you want me to give this back?”

“No, keep your ill-gotten gains,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Well, if it’s mine, can’t I share it?” Veronica asked, holding out the cash. Her father tried to push it back toward her, but Veronica shook her head. “I know the house is going into foreclosure, Dad. You’re filing for _bankruptcy_. We have to pay a deposit to get an apartment, right?”

She had a spreadsheet in her backpack, itemized by price and location.

Her father tried to step around her. “Veronica, that doesn’t matter. I can’t ask you to --”

“You didn’t ask,” Veronica snapped. “You didn’t ask for any of this, anymore than I did. I didn’t ask for my best friend to die. I didn’t ask for Mom to leave. But I am asking you to take this money, because it’s the first time in eight weeks I haven’t felt completely helpless. _Please._ ”

Veronica hadn’t wanted to cry. She hadn’t shed a single tear since the day she’d caught Carrie Bishop and Susan Knight gossipping about her in the girls’ room. That was the day she’d cut her off her hair and decided to become someone else. But the tightness of her father’s hug caught her off guard, and suddenly she was the old Veronica again, crying in her father’s arms.

When she was done, her father pushed her back gently and said, “You’re not giving your old man enough credit. What the bank can’t trace, the bank can’t take. I’ve been putting away cash for a month now, and there’s enough for an apartment.” He pushed the now-crumpled hundreds back into her hand. “If you want to help, take care of yourself. There’s not going to be much extra for a long time. You’re on on your own, kid -- gas, clothes, makeup, you name it. All your responsibility now.”

Veronica shoved the money in her pocket, managing a weak smile. “Who’s my daddy?” she asked.

Her father’s face lit up. “I am. And don’t you forget it.”

***

If Veronica had thought Mr. Finch would actually _read_ the story, she probably would’ve written something different. She expected a few cursory comma checks and a 97 at the top of the page to make her think he cared. Instead she gets a call to the counselor’s office.

Ms. James, the school counselor, stares at her with wide, concerned eyes. “Veronica, this story you wrote --”

“Is a work of fiction,” she says confidently. “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.”

“For a fictional story, it seems awfully real,” Ms. James says. “I know things have been rough for you after your friend’s death. Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

“Nope.” Veronica stands up, shouldering her backpack. “Is that all?”

Ms. James shakes her head. “I really do have to call your father about this one, Veronica. You understand that, right?”

Veronica, luckily, has been prepared for this eventuality ever since the day she’d gotten in-school suspension. She slides a card across Ms. James’ desk. “My dad got a new number last week. The media wouldn’t stop hounding him. You should probably update your records.”

If it’s possible, Ms. James’ eyes grow even more wide and sympathetic. Veronica backs out of the office with a little wave. Two minutes later, she feels the burner phone in her backpack vibrate. Tonight she’ll listen to Ms. James’ no-doubt-overwrought voicemail and she’ll compose an appropriately fatherly reply from keith.mars@gmail.com.

Maybe right now, she’s not the person she wants to be, but the $686 in her bank account is pretty good consolation -- as is the phone call from Mrs. Casablancas’ best friend, asking for surveillance and an embarrassing photo of her cheating husband. She scrubs the word WHORE off her windshield for the fourth day in a row and decides she can survive this new life.


End file.
